<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>an explanation of the curious incidents of rue de rousseau, no. 23 by sakura_freefall</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423172">an explanation of the curious incidents of rue de rousseau, no. 23</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall'>sakura_freefall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And causes trouble, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Era, Canonical Character Death, Character Development, Gavroche Gets Revenge, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, I sort-of-maybe-kinda break my own rules, I swear they will be important later, I try to imitate Victor Hugo's writing style, Long Digressions, Minor Character-Centric, Missing Scene, Post-Barricade, Remy is a Human Disaster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:54:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27423172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>M. Remy, an up-and-coming officer of the Paris National Guard, is just doing what the law requires of him. Or so he tries to convince himself.</p><p>Convincing himself isn't working as well as he'd hoped, especially when curious happenings occur far too often to be a coincidence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gavroche Thenardier &amp; Remy Frasier</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. CHAPTER I: THE BACKGROUND OF A CERTAIN MONSIEUR AND HIS RESIDENCE</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Remy was named by tumblr user i-ll-be-the-moon. He is not in fact the rodent from Ratatouille. Apologies.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rue de Rousseau, to a passerby, looks quite ordinary. It is just another bourgeoise street full of wrought-iron banisters and well-furnished buildings. The sort of people that lived in these houses, which were largely constructed of brick, cobblestone, and facade, with small grassy lawns full of poorly-tended but extravagant florae, were exactly the sort that the street's namesake would have despised. Stuffy, fairly wealthy people, old, monarchist gentlemen, crooked politicians who'd made their living off unfair taxes of the poor while simultaneously evading their own, and a National Guard officer by the name of Monsieur Remy de Frasier.</p><p>To investigate further into the proceedings of this passage, one must know some sort of parenthetical background knowledge of Monsieur de Frasier, or Officer Remy, as he preferred to be called, uncommonly shedding his last name on all but official documents. Remy was born in 1803, and at the present time of these events, which take place in the late autumn of the year 1832, has 29 years to his name. His family was of a wealthy but, in his words, vapid sort, full of fruitless ideals and worthless convictions, which he deemed utterly foolish and useless. Needless to say, he shed the influence of his family as quickly as possible, enrolling in the Parisian police force, and later became a cadet in the National Guard.</p><p>Remy was best described as a polite but curt man, not one much for smalltalk, an enjoyer of the high-society pleasures of the city, always knowing of the best places for drinks but never making friends. He was a patron of the theatre, and visited frequent art exhibitions. A fair majority of his time was devoted to his job, which consisted moreso of filing and filling out paperwork than actual combat or action. He did his job competently and with enthusiasm, but not so much as to seem shallow. He was of a moderate height, with a sharp face and dark hair, and no beard but instead a moustache on which he privately prided himself. He was not exactly attractive in the aesthetic sense, his nose was pointier than most, his eyes turned down at the ends, and a prominent chin. However, he exuded a demeanor of quiet intelligence and respect, which were two of the many qualities that facilitated his rise to prominence within the ranks of the law enforcement.</p><p>Quiet intelligence balanced with respect indeed. He was smart but unquestioning, witty but not sharp or sarcastic, the sort of mind that is not much inclined to question the authorities. Unlike some others of his intellectual brilliance, such as the insurgent Enjolras or the talented poet Prouvaire, his mind was not fixed on any sort of starry ideal or humanitarian goal, he simply wanted to carve out a life for himself in the unforgiving place known as Paris, and if he was forced to bite the tail of his fellow dogs, then so be it. Perhaps this was a waste of the heaven-granted talent he posessed for critical thinking and rhetoric, but he might have said the same about the more outspoken revolutionaries who had ended up dead or jailed for their so-called crimes. Remy would much rather be living and vile than kind and dead.</p><p>Where does this Monsieur Remy intersect with the aformentioned Rue de Rousseau? To put it simply, he lived there. At the house No. 23, he had made his home and spent his time, when he was not at the office or at some revel or exhibition. The house at No. 23 had a slightly bedraggled lawn with the only splash of color being some impressive and vivacious red poppies in a corner of the garder and a large windowbox of some sort of leafy thing which may have flowered but had the air of something that had all but given up on corporeal existance. This personification of the various plants in Monsieur Remy's yard may seem at this time superfluous, but rest assured that they will be relevant quite soon.</p><p>There was a small porch on the outside of the house, which was more of a glorified doorstep. However, it had room for a chair, on which Remy often spent evenings reading a relaxing book with a glass of fine wine at hand. The door creaked slightly when opened, and the hallway was paneled with dark wood of a cedar or possibly spruce variety. The parlor was well-lit and in in hung several quite lovely oil paintings. A slightly lumpy velveteen couch occupied a large portion of it, as well as an ottoman and a large, varnished bookshelf upon which were multiple tomes which were either well-read or never opened. A fireplace, which the season to light had just began, crackled under a red-brick hearth and mantle. Remy did not often entertain visitors, so he saw no need for any sort of excessive seating- if in the off-chance someone were to come calling, he could just as well take a chair from the kitchen. The kitchen was not small, but not grandiose, and it contained a stove and tea-kettle, a counter holding several bottles of wine, a pantry of goods, a cutting-board, and, in the basement directly below, which was not heated, an icebox that contained perishables, fresh butter, and a bottle of quality champagne which the man was saving for a noteworthy occasion.</p><p>The first floor of the house also contained his study, with a large desk and cushioned chair, and papers and notes from his taxing job laid in neat piles- Remy could not stand clutter. A lovely inkpen and gold-gilded bottle full of writing ink sat displayed off to the side. Several plaques and awards had been hung neatly in place of family pictures, for Remy had neither spouse nor children. A burnt-down wax candle on a tarnished candlestick sat here as well, to be lit when the man was working late at night.</p><p>Upstairs had a bathchamber and bedroom which were scantly decorated, as Remy felt no need to embellish them. A dresser and nightstand sat next to the bed and mattress, and an excellent wardrobe stood like a silent sentinel nearby.</p><p>Now that one may have an intimate knowledge of the layout and design of Rue de Rousseau No. 23, we can return to the relevant plotline without having fear of missing a detail which may become greatly important in the course of these events.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. CHAPTER II: THOSE WHO CANNOT DRINK CHAMPANGE ARE INCLINED TO DESTROY IT</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Monsieur Remy was a man of routine. In the mornings, he roused himself from bed, ate a decent breakfast, and went to work. Upon returning, he'd read the papers, cook and eat his dinner, or perhaps go out to a bar, finish his day's work in his study, do some reading if he had the time, and go to bed. He rarely dreamed, and when he did, he did not usually recall them upon waking.</p><p>We make use of the past participle 'was' due to the fact that an event had occured earlier in the summer which had had a profound impact on M. Remy's mind and soul. It must be remembered that Remy was a young man, who had risen unusually quickly through the ranks, and it was not the normal occurence for someone of his age to have the prestige and position that he obtained, nor the batallion of men, some whom were older than him, which he commanded. The Guard did not usually see combat, and the 1830 July Rebellion was something of which Remy had heard through the grapevine, as it were, rather than being a witness directly of. Of course, the higher-ranking soldiers were keen to make it seem as if the Guard, promoting law and order, were the heroes of the story, when in fact this is a matter of some philosophical debate. Nevertheless, Remy's sights were still unshakenly set on serving his country through what he saw as rightful and dutiful service. Like stated before, this was not a man inclined to question.</p><p>The events which will be discussed take place in late autumn, however they would not take place had other events not occured earlier that very year, in the first few days of June. Therefore, it is necessary to give a very brief summary of these happenings, as well as M. Remy's part in the affair. For this was perhaps a key point that shifted the ideals of the man, however slightly, and planted a seed of sorts that must be watered to grow into anything at all. The watering will come later, for now we focus on the planting, which unfortunately involved a degree of death and blood.</p><p>On June 5th, after the death of a politician named Lamarque, who we shall not go into for that would take so long that this story would become obsolete, a small group of students had taken to the streets in rebellion against the monarchy, which had gone once again frivolous and naive, as monarchies often do. The Guard, obviously, was sent in to put the insurrection down. It just so happened that the powers-that-be had dictated Remy to test his mettle as commander of a batallion in charge of taking down a certain rebel barricade and restoring peace to the streets. This rebel barricade is perhaps familliar to the reader. Remy, a young man himself, and his group of soldiers, had been ordered to use deadly force and cannons on the fortifications, and who was Remy to deny such an order? It had been a quick battle, and by noon the next day, everyone involved had died or fled. M. Remy had watched most of this from his post atop the Guard's own blockade, but had been swept into the action when a child had began stealing ammunition from the soldiers' supply.</p><p>We know of what happened with the child, so it is not needed to mention this again. The child has a name, however, and his name is Gavroche. This is of importance later, be assured, and it is in no way superfluous.</p><p>He had also been called upon to execute yet another pair of insurgents, whose names he was not at the time aware of. The leader of the lot, who you may know as a certain Enjolras, and his dark-haired oft-drunk lover Grantaire. We know this already, as well, however at least one of these names will become of consequence later in the story.</p><p>Though Remy was able to scrub the blood from his hands and uniform, he was not able to scrub it from his mind. Taking human life, especially youth, makes a certain mark upon the psyche which can never be removed. It is not external, usually, you may pass such a marked person on the street and not notice in the slightest. However, it is there, as certain as there are stars in the daytime. Left unchecked, such a mark can grow and grow until it consumes one from the inside. Remy could not rid himself of the mark.</p><p>Thus he began to have frequent nightmares. Many of these he did not remember upon waking, but they left him shaking in his nightclothes, desperately lighting a candle to try and banish whatever demon had found its way into his dreams. He found himself in the habit of checking behind him as he left rooms, biting his lip raw, and never leaving the house without locking first the door. What was he afraid of? He didn't know. Perhaps he told himself that he was wary of a surviving revolutionary perhaps coming to exact revenge on behalf of their comrades, or a thief breaking in, despite the fact that he'd never worried about thieves before. He decided these to avoid what he was truly afraid of, which was himself. Terrified of murderers when he himself was one. The mark of blood would follow him the rest of his life, and the more he tried to ignore it, the more he became afraid of it.</p><p>If the reader remembers, we once mentioned a bottle of fine champagne, the good stuff, not the flat, cheap kind, which M. Remy kept in his icebox in case of some special occasion. He did not have an idea of what special occasion he might be waiting for, but he kept it nonetheless because sometimes the anticipation of such a thing is far sweeter than the thing itself. The bottle had remained undisturbed since purchased.</p><p>One night, at an hour sometime in between late night and early morning, Remy was awakened with a loud crash. It seemed to come from the cellar. He instantly became petrified with terror, for perhaps this was the time an intruder decided to enter. A clumsy intruder, as it was, he thought to himself, as he descended the stairs with a candle in hand.</p><p>Upon entering the cellar, he held his candle out in front of him, and called "Who's there?" He did not know exactly what he'd expected, but he had certainly not expected the laughter that echoed from the walls. It was high-pitched, bubbly, and childish, the sort that accompanied mischief-making, but who on Earth would be laughing in his locked cellar in the middle of the night?</p><p>"Who's there?" he asked again. The only answer was more stifled laughter. He advanced cautiously forward, hoping to find some sort of explanation, intruder or no, for the noise and crash. Instead, despite the lack of any sort of wind whatsoever, the candle he was holding was snuffed out. Remy, reasonably startled by this, continued to move forward, with the full moon the only guide, when he stepped into something wet and cold.</p><p>All at once, he felt as if he was back on that bloody street, in the summer's day, covered in blood which he himself had spilled. After a moment, however, he regained his composure enough to blink open his eyes and take stock of his situation. The liquid covering the floor was not blood, he realized with a start, it was champagne. The bottle had been reduced to shards of glass, and there was no sign of the laughing intruder. The windows were unbroken, and the door was locked. Why would a robber break in only to smash a bottle and leave? And how in heaven's name had they gotten in and out? And what had caused that infernal laughter?</p><p>M. Remy had no belief in the supernatural. He most certainly had no belief in ghosts. He chided himself on even thinking in such a manner. But why else would everything occur in such a strange fashion? None of it made sense to the man. The only conclusion he could reasonably come to was that he was dreaming. It was just another nightmare in a long string of troubled sleep which he had brought upon himself when he turned weapons on his fellow humans. He set down the mystery candle, walked calmly and deliberately back to bed, and fell asleep.</p><p>In the morning, the events of the night were but a fuzzy haze in Remy's mind. He was sure, now, that they were simply a dream, or a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep. Why, he might as well go downstairs and check for himself! He was certain that the bottle would be intact, the candle would be gone, and everything would be as it should.</p><p>Alas, this was not the case. He took a sharp inhale as he took in the sights- knocked-over candle, shards of broken glass, and stain on the floor where the champagne once was. Still, there was no door unlocked or window broken, and if he was very quiet, he could swear he heard echoes of that mysterious laughter.</p><p>Perhaps it was a cat. A stray cat. Yes, that must be it. How it had gotten in and out, he didn't know, but the explanation seemed infinitely more plausible than the other one his mind had created. After all, there was no such thing as ghosts.</p><p>On the matter of ghosts, there is one thing we must clarify. Humour me, for a moment, and assume the existance, however improbable, of ghosts. A ghost, being semicorporeal, cannot drink champagne. Now, there is another sort of person who cannot, or at least <em>should </em>not drink champagne. That person is a child.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. CHAPTER III: THE OBTAINING OF OIL PAINTINGS (AND OTHER STRANGE OCCURANCES)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>M. Remy, whom we now return in full to, was not the sort of man to break the law, in fact he would have scoffed at the mention of such a wrongdoing being attributed to his name. But as with many others who are proudly clear of criminal charges, there is a level of hypocrisy to Remy's scorn of rule-bending. The man had, in brief, done something that in any other circumstance, would be considered a crime. To understand this, we must first elaborate on some of the decorations adorning his sitting-room.</p><p>As we have before stated, Remy's house was not a particularly garish one. And in the sitting-room, the couch, trestle-table, mahogany bookshelf, hearth and mantle, and drapes were all perfectly transparently and legally acquired. However, it is known that two oil paintings adorn the walls, which give an air of aristocracy to the place.</p><p>The first painting is of a medium size, and shows an empty wine-bottle, splendidly rendered, full of delicately painted red roses, designed to look almost as if they had grown from the dregs of the wine itself. The tablecloth under the bottle of flowers is painted a dusky off-white, with deep grey creases lining the edges. It is the sort of painting that seems almost touchable. The second painting is slightly larger and horizontal to the first's vertical canvas. It depicts a brown tabby kitten, with wide and innocent eyes, curled up on a swath of bright red fabric. The light hits the cat so percisely, captured in brush-strokes, that it looks as if there is a window into some clearer sky just out of the painting's view. Both of these canvases are signed, but only with a single letter, an elaborate cursive "R".</p><p>What does this "R" stand for? Not Remy, as one might guess. Remy, for all his appreciation of the arts, was not a painter, and had little interest in becoming one. It didn't pay well, and he did not enjoy making the messes that would come with bright pigments. In fact, he was not aware of whom exactly had painted them, or anything else about their origin. This is because he did not buy them from any retailer or studio. He had found- that is to say, stolen- them from the back room of an abandoned street cafe which had been cleared out after being discovered as a rebel stronghold. The paintings, however, held no rebellious messages, and he only wondered how on earth they'd ended up in an insurrectionist base of operations. Probably stolen from some decent, hardworking citizen, he assumed. And Remy, having a weakness for the aesthetic, had decided that rather than turning them in to the proper authorities or selling them, that he would take them home for his own use. What harm could it do?</p><p>So for several months, the paintings hung on display in Rue de Rousseau, No. 23. He had almost forgotten of their origins.</p><p>However, one day, M. Remy had experienced a particularly exhausting day at work- there had been misfiled registers, a prison escapee to deal with, and a pub owner who'd neglected to turn in their monthly rent- and had detoured on the way back to his house to have a drink at a winehouse he enjoyed. He met a few co-workers there- a man named Henri who had a very pretty sister, Andre, who had only recently joined the Guard, and Lucien, who'd fought alongside him in the June Rebellions. They talked briefly of their families, which Remy had none to speak of, their plans for the upcoming fine weather, and divulged briefly into philosophical talk, which was when Remy politely excused himself. He had enough complications without having debates to deal with.</p><p>Remy returned home, having not drunk enough wine to become intoxicated, and ready to relax and have a meal before returning to his study to finish his work. These simple plans were disrupted by the startled realization on his part that something was very, very different about the sitting-room.</p><p>The paintings were gone from the walls, and a piece of cheap paper hung from the spot the larger of the two paintings had been.</p><p>Remy had not forgotten the events of the champagne-bottle, which had happened only two days before. He did not think of them, for men such as Remy often prefer to not think about what made them uncomfortable or that which they did not understand. It seemed too soon for yet another coincidence. So he advanced, shaking a little but not quite knowing why, and inspected the note which had been left on the wall. </p><p>It was written in the shaky script of a child who knew how to write but had little practice in doing so, peppered with mispellings and ink-blots. The paper read:</p><p>
  <em>MY GOOD MONSIER,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>YOU HAVE TWO PAINTNGS IN YOR HOUSE WICH DO NOT BELONG TO YOU. THEY BELONG TO MY FRIEND, M. GRANTAIRE, WHO HAD PAINTED THEM HIM SELF AND MISS PLACED THEM IN THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAFE WICH YOU TOOK THEM FROM. HE DID NOT INTEND THEM TO FALL IN TO THE HANDS OF A BORGEIOS DEJENERETE SUCH AS YOR SELF. I HAV TAKEN THE LIBARTY OF RETORNING THEM TO HIM. YOU CALL YOR SELF AN OFICER OF THE LAW SO PLEASE FOLLOW THE RULES YOU CLAYM TO UPHOLD. HAV A PLESENT EVNING AND LONG LIVE THE REVOLUSHON.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>YORS,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>G. T.</em>
</p><p>Needless to say, M. Remy found this very strange indeed. First, how had this little rascal managed to get into the house in the first place? He'd locked the door- he was sure of it, having checked twice, thrice that morning. None of the windows were broken, and the chimmeny was plugged. He did not understand how on Earth they'd done it. You'd have to simply materialize through the walls! Of course, that was impossible.</p><p>And secondly, what was the meaning of the strange letter? Aside from calling him, although mispelled heavily, a "bourgeoise degenerate", and insulting his career, it had mentioned the fact that he'd found them in the cafe-turned-rebel-stronghold! How would anyone know such a thing? And how would some street thief know of what was obviously a talented artist? And apparently they had not been stolen and put in the backroom, they had been misplaced there by the artist himself! Was the artist in fact a rebel? But who would rebel when their talents could easily win them a comfortable life? This made no sense to M. Remy, as a good many other things did not. And he did not know of anyone with the initials <em>G. T. </em>nor could he imagine any reason why an intruder would leave any note of identification. And "long live the revolution"? That in itself was incriminating evidence! How would anyone be so stupid?</p><p>What truly startled M. Remy, however, was the faint sound of laughter that echoed from the walls.</p><p>"Who- who's there?" he asked, trying to remain calm.</p><p>The laughter only got louder.</p><p>"Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Get out!"</p><p>More laughter.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Remy thought he saw a small figure standing on the stairway. But when he whipped around his head to face the person, it had vanished as if it had never existed at all. Upon approaching the stairs, he found, dropped neatly on one of the steps, a tricolour rosette.</p><p>What was this? He was near-certain that these were a rebel symbol, so how had one appeared so suddenly on the staircase he thought he'd seen someone on? He picked it up and examined it. It looked slightly beat-up covered in dirt and scuff marks. And although his instincts were screaming to get rid of it, burn it, throw it as far away as he could, he set it on the dresser. Perhaps he could present it to his superiors at the office, as evidence. Yes, that was what he would do.</p><p>The sun was setting now, and due to the fact that he could not possibly accomplish any work that night in the shaken state he was, he elected instead to go to bed early. Perhaps some sleep would clear his head. He noticed, with a bit of a start, that the neatly-made bed had been trampled and wrinkled, as if someone had jumped on it. But that must have been the wind.</p><p>Remy ignored the fact that the windows were closed.</p><p>Now, there are certain terrifying things in life, and one of the most frightening ones of the lot is being woken up sharply by an unfamilliar force in the black of night. It is a visceral thing, the moment of terror that accompanied a waking nightmare. All of us have experienced something of the sort, and most have forgotten these childhood fears. But that was all they were, in general. Fears. Certainly not real, only a product of an excited and sleep-deprived mind. And most adults had long since experienced this. However, it is something of another matter entirely to be woken up to an icy chill and the pale face of a child.</p><p>Remy startled awake, letting out a scream so loud that it might have woken the neighbors. He clawed at his face, which had suddenly become covered in a deluge of ice water, shivering from cold and fear as he blinked open his eyes. For there, at the foot of the bed, stood a small, blond figure, with dirty, too-big blue coat and a wide, naughty smile. The child's eyes were a warm brown, and sparkled with glee and a hint of something darker. Suddenly, the child began to laugh, sounding just as he'd heard both times in the house. The sound grated at Remy's eardrums, and he didn't dare move, eyes fixed on the kid and the empty bucket he held.</p><p>There were three things about the child that greatly disturbed M. Remy. The first was that, though he couldn't exactly place it, the child seemed horribly, horribly familiar, as if somehow he was associated with something very deeply carved into his mind. The second was that in the pitch-dark, a faint sort of light seemed to come directly from him, as if from an invisible lantern. The third was that, although he could not quite tell in the gloom, he thought he could see the faint outline of the wardrobe directly through the figure.</p><p>Remy buried his head under his pillow and screamed until his voice gave out.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>